


A Uniform Intermittent Rotary Motion

by ren_makoto



Category: DCU
Genre: M/M, Missing powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ren_makoto/pseuds/ren_makoto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A powerless Clark Kent falls into bed with Bruce Wayne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Uniform Intermittent Rotary Motion

**Author's Note:**

> This is porn. Just porn. And I may have mentioned it other places before, but the title on this makes me giggle.

 

Clark wondered what it would be like to do this again, when his powers returned and his senses were heightened. It was overwhelming as a man. He felt broken and wasted and exhausted and so very alive. He imagined as Superman that it would be ten times as intense, nasty, hot. And Bruce was a biter so it was a good thing Clark wasn't super anything right now because, well, ouch.

He could only _hope_ for a repeat because the logical part of him was certain the only reason they could do this now—now, after all these years—was because Bruce felt safe; knew Superman could lose control and shake the house down around them, but that Clark Kent would just tremble and moan and shake and barely rattle the big bed. For a vigilante, Bruce was very cautious, it seemed.

And Clark was a babbling, sweaty mess. He was so over stimulated, he couldn't even open his eyes. It was like being fucked raw by darkness, so appropriate when his bed partner was Batman.

Being fucked by one of the most dangerous men in the world while he was vulnerable like this, just a human, soft and easy to bruise—

It was terrifying.

It was nerve-racking.

It had him harder than he'd ever been in his life. He was a super-hero, after all: he liked danger. Apparently, he liked danger enough to spread his legs and take it full and throbbing inside him. Hard.

Bruce was a relentless, slick force inside of him. No condom; just lube, sweat, and ejaculate easing his way deep into Clark. He made these guttural, animal noises with each shudder of his impressive cock into Clark's sensitive entrance.

And Clark had ripped the skin of his knuckles biting down on them to fight the cries and moans in his throat. When he spread his legs wider, it didn't get him what he wanted, which was faster, harder, deeper. Instead, Bruce kept the pace he had chosen. It was good, so good. But Clark felt like he was losing his mind. Bruce was apparently going to keep him on edge for as long as he wanted and Clark felt like all the blood in his body had pooled to his dick, leaving him lightheaded and dizzy on sex. Bruce wouldn't let him jack himself off; slapped his hand away every time he tried. So his erection just bobbed, swollen and purpling against his belly, slapping his flat stomach with every jerk of his body. Bruce's balls were a counterpoint to the sound of his cock against his own skin. They slap, slap, slapped against Clark's reddened ass and then Clark's engorged cock went, slap, slap, slap against his stomach, drooling come constantly, but never just letting go. He wanted it to just give in, to erupt and shoot semen all over them both—splatter Bruce's strong chin, his pretty red mouth—so this delicious torture would stop.

He'd die if Bruce stopped.

From the initial stretch of fingers inside him, to the first, endless push of cock, Clark had been lost, feeling fuller and fuller with each thrust. He'd thought what felt like forty-five minutes ago that he couldn't take anymore. His mind was in chaos, overloaded with the feelings, the smells, the tastes. He arched more, brushed his free hand against his bitten nipples and his whole body shook with sensation.

"Br-Bru…Bruce," he moaned as the next series of thrusts were staccato punctuations that made his teeth rattle and his eyes squeeze shut even tighter. Clark wondered how Bruce's hips could take this kind of torment. And how did he have the time to fight crime when his idea of sex was hours and hours of foreplay and fucking? Bruce made an event out of it; had left Clark incapable of feeling his toes, of feeling much of anything but the tight, hot, ramming of a blood-turgid erection pounding into him.

"Oh, ah, ah…please…" he begged and it was Batman who chuckled a low, deadly laugh above him.

"If I let you come now, Clark," he almost whispered, "I'll have to keep fucking you. I'm not even close. I can keep going."

"Oh…no…Bruce. Please…?" He opened his eyes—stinging with sweat—to gaze blearily up at Bruce who looked feral and beautiful all at once, his white teeth sharp and bright in the dim room.

The sight made him suddenly clench both hands into the mattress and arch again. The motion gave him the leverage to wrap both legs tight around Bruce's tapered waist. It had the unfortunate effect of knocking Bruce off balance, which interrupted the rhythm that had brought him to the point of begging. However, it was all worth it when Bruce went forward, squeezing Clark's neglected cock between the two men's stomachs. Clark was rubbing immediately, needing to come more than he'd ever needed anything in his life.

His cock leaked more and more white streaks that smoothed the movement of his cock between their sweating bodies.

"Oh, yes, Bruce. So...good," he said, which was an understatement. His own gyrations were not only relieving his cock, but were pushing Bruce into him in such a delicious way, touching all the places inside him where he'd needed Bruce for a long time.

"Clark," Bruce warned, but for the first time in the hours since the marathon sex had begun, he sounded close to breaking.

Clark found strength in him to lean up, push their mouths together. He dropped his jaw wide to beg for tongue and Bruce was there, wet and thick and pushing in to his mouth like he was fucking him there, too. And Clark had needed that, to be filled everywhere he could be filled with Bruce, Batman, all of him…

The kiss was messy, all wet smacking; drool and tongue. Clark kept trying to open his mouth wider, to be filled more, just like his legs were spread so wide that the stretch was a beautiful burn through his groin.

Bruce broke the kiss as he raised up to brace his arms on either side of Clark's head, but kept his hips and stomach pressed down, kept pressing against Clark's cock.

"Clark…?"

"Yes. Like that…yes."

Bruce made a growling noise in reply and then picked up the rhythm again, his hips snap, snap, snapping as his cock laid claim over and over to Clark's hole. He sped up.

"More…"

And sped up more…

"Ahhh! Fuck me! Fuck me…" His voice faded out on a wrecked whine, his throat ruined from all his screaming and begging and moaning.

Clark's hands flew up, caught at Bruce's ass, urging him deeper, enthusiastic to have Bruce giving it to him. Just. Like. This.

"Are you going to come for me, Clark?" Bruce asked and Clark thrilled at the soft touch of Bruce's fingers against his cheek, down his neck. Loved that Bruce was strong enough to hold himself up with one arm while fucking him.

"Mmm….ahhh!" Clark cried.

"Tell me you like how I fuck you," Bruce demanded.

"I…I like…I-I…love how you fuck me. I love your body. Your mouth. Love you cock. I love y…"

But Bruce kissed him and speared the words with his tongue, killed them with his teeth.

And rocked in, stopped and then growled against Clark's mouth, "Come for me, Clark. Do it."

The white sparks before his eyes and the roaring through his veins, the growing, sweet/sour release spreading from his loins up let him know that Bruce had brought him to some great place. He was screaming through it, tearing at the sheets, at Bruce's back, at his own hair. All his thoughts, his mind, his being went up and out, drifting, and then slammed back into him hard.

His spine was arched like a rainbow, every muscle in his body taut. And Bruce was inside him through it, solid and hot and hard.

Clark's opened his eyes, his vision cleared of the bright sparks of light, the pinpoint lens flares of his orgasm. Bruce was trembling above him, flushed and drenched with sweat. Still a hard, throbbing thickness inside him. And Clark sometimes had a hard time believing that Bruce was just a man.

"Jesus, Bruce," he said. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes to see better the erotic picture Bruce painted with the corded lines of his muscles, the straining veins.

Bruce reached up with his left hand, took all his weight on his right, and stroked down Clark's face, around his eyes like imagining the glasses that had been tossed away right before their first kiss. It was such a tender display that Clark's mouth opened on a surprised 'O'. It was so sexual in its simplicity, like a gesture of ownership, that his cock twitched.

And that was when Bruce pushed inside him again, hissed when Clark squeezed down on him. Then the hiss turned into one of those unexpected cries from Bruce. Clark treasured it for the rare thing it was; Bruce was a silent, controlled, machine of a lover, so Clark enjoyed the signs that he unintentionally gave to show he was losing his calm.

"Again," Bruce demanded in a hoarse whisper.

And Clark was happy to comply, to watch Bruce fall apart above him. He was sore and tender, his stomach muscles in spasm, but none of that mattered. He used his inner muscles to milk the cock that was sheathed in his body.

One more stroke and Clark squeezed. Two and he squeezed more, thrilled when Bruce called his name.

"Clark…"

And on each stroke, a spurt of come shot from Clark's softening erection, as if Bruce could make Clark's body to do as he wanted, to make him keep having an orgasm long after he thought himself wrung dry.

Three…

Squeeze…

Four…

Squeeze, and Bruce gasped.

"Clark…I want you," he said, so softly Clark barely heard the words at all. And it was such an obvious, unnecessary thing for him to say considering where his dick was, but Clark knew a part of him had wanted to hear his maddening, arrogant friend and sometime adversary say it, just once.

"Come on Bruce," Clark said, touched Bruce's mouth, smiled when Bruce's tongue darted out to lick the salt off his fingers. "Come inside me," Clark whispered.

And Bruce did, sliding in and out of him a few more times as his come poured into Clark, leaked out of him onto the sheets. He stilled, pushed deep into Clark, and emptied his last spurt into him, crying out some unintelligible thing that Clark could imagine was all sorts of words he wanted, badly, to hear.

Then it was over. Bruce collapsed, a marionette with its strings cut.

Clark caught him as he fell, cradled him close. He kissed the side of Bruce's face, combed his fingers through his damp hair.

Bruce shook and shook as Clark stroked him and it was such a reversal that he felt so strong now when a minute ago Bruce had turned him into a babbling and weak wanton.

They stayed like that for long moments. Clark felt at peace, knew Bruce didn't. He'd never known how to fix that, not as Superman, not as Kal-El, and certainly not as Clark Kent. Bruce was one of the biggest mysteries in his life.

When Bruce pushed up to look down at him, Clark couldn't help but smile for all sorts of reasons he couldn't put into words. And Bruce, of course, didn't smile back. So much passed between at that moment, from questions of what next to roaring contentment—like a beast uncurling and stretching after years pent up and caged. Clark realized that once didn't get this out of his system. The minute they crashed together like some inevitable train wreck, Clark had been fooling himself thinking that this would quell his need. Yes, he'd been a fool: this had been a delicious, wonderful, terrible appetizer.

After all, they'd been deliberately not sleeping together for so long that once was never going to be enough. Never. Clark's smile widened as he saw all of this and more mirrored back at him from Bruce's face. Bruce who was trying and failing to shut himself back away. Even after all this, he was a difficult bastard. When Bruce opened his mouth to speak and tried to shift away, Clark wrapped one arm around him, used every ounce of his human strength to hold Bruce against him, to keep their bodies pressed tightly together. With the other arm, he lifted his hand and just gently pressed one finger to Bruce's lips.

"Don't say anything that we'll both regret," he said, voice thick from sex and emotion. "Think about it, first," Clark demanded softly. Because he didn't want to hear any of the logical things Bruce was going to say that would end this before it got complicated or dangerous. He refused to hear a single bit of fact or reality or sense. He was more than tired of all of that.

And he didn't want to fight about it, either, but he would. Dammit, he would. It meant that much to him, somehow. If Bruce tried to call an end to this thing before it ever really started, he'd have to go through Clark first. And if he thought Clark was going to give up without a fight, he had another thing coming.

Clark was surprised enough when Bruce only nodded that he had to fight not to show it, was pretty sure Bruce saw it anyway. He didn't really care. He pulled his finger away and replaced it with his mouth, kissed Bruce with too much enthusiasm, too much relief.

When the kiss ended, Bruce rolled off of Clark and to the side. Clark turned to face him and the two men just looked at each other. It was such a nice view, Bruce's handsome face, that Clark ignored the uncomfortable squish inside him and between his legs that was coupled with the even more uncomfortable drying of semen and lube in those same places. He'd go and wash it all off later, maybe convince Bruce to come with him when he did.

But for now, this was nice; sharing breath, looking at each other, no obligations, no places to go; and the world quiet to him since Clark Kent couldn't hear anything near like Superman could. Clark Kent could just hear the steadying breath of the man beside him, the thud, thud, thud of his own heartbeat, the soft settlings of Wayne Manor on its sturdy wood and stone bones.

And having Bruce close enough to touch, and permission to do so was making him giddy, making his tongue loose. It was Bruce's turn to stop Clark when he would have spoken.

"Don't," he said when Clark opened his mouth. It snapped shut audibly a second later.

Clark laughed sadly over his disappointment, then sighed, and rubbed a hand hard across his face.

It took a moment for him to find the right words to say, but at last he stated, "One day, you're going to let me say it." 

Bruce almost smiled. Didn't. "Maybe, one day, Clark," he answered, then added, "but not today."

He gave Clark a kiss so quick Clark barely felt it, then leapt out of bed with alarming grace and speed. He walked to the bathroom, glorious and nude and over-sexed and perfectly scarred and battered.

Clark's mouth went dry watching him move. Over his shoulder, Bruce called back to Clark, "We're going to shower, then see about getting your powers back. I have some theories."

And damn Bruce for taking his shower idea. Bless him for taking the decision out of Clark's hands. Bruce disappeared into the bathroom and Clark's feet were ahead of his brain because he was already half across the room by the time he realized he'd been pulled, by Bruce's sex appeal and by his dick, to the bathroom door.

"When I get my powers back," he whispered just outside the door, too soft for Bruce to hear, wondered if all the surveillance in the mansion would pick it up anyway, "we're doing this in midair."

It was an old fantasy and one that, for the first time, seemed like it might come true. The door closed behind him with a soft click. Locked the two men away from the world and its realities for just a little longer.

And the truth of it was this: Clark wasn't Superman. Not now. And they were on solid ground, in a steaming bathroom because Bruce took his showers too hot. They were just two men, nothing extraordinary, really.

Two men kissing under a strong spray of clean water. Slowly, slowly, savoring.

And Clark couldn't bend steel anymore for the man in his arms. Couldn't fight back to back with him and triumph against villains easily; or catch him if he fell from some skyscraper he'd used ingenuity to climb.

No, he wasn't Superman, but he believed in Bruce.

And if Bruce said he'd get Clark's powers back, all Clark had to do was sit back and wait.

But that was something to worry about later.

Now, all he could—all he wanted to do—was pull Bruce closer, whisper in his ear all the nasty, true things he had in mind. And Bruce didn't pull away or start a fight or question the future. He just kissed Clark back, ran his hands over Clark's wet skin, let his mission and his life rest silent and forgotten in the cave far below them.

And one day, Clark hoped, this would be a fond memory of how it all started, now how it almost ended.

But for now…

For now…

For now, it was enough that they were together right then and that nothing, not even Superman, could take away the possibility of more.

 


End file.
